Content warning: Scared of ghosts? Don’t tempt the Barnacle-Eyed Ferryman. His eerie gaze and chilling invites could make even the most seasoned Chateaugay Lake codger question reality itself.
THE STEAMBOAT DISPATCH
Submitted by the West Sanburn Hill Correspondent
January 30, 2025
“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”
—William Shakespeare, The Tempest
THE BARNACLE-EYED FERRYMAN: A TIMELY WARNING FROM YOUR TRUSTED LOCAL STEAMBOAT DISPATCH!
LOWER CHATEAUGAY LAKE – Folks round here have long accepted that our lake’s got its fair share of peculiarities—some harmless, some not, and a few that make you question the structural integrity of reality itself. But recent reports suggest that one of our less-than-friendly local phantoms, the so-called Barnacle-Eyed Ferryman, has been making an unusual number of recent appearances this past month. And as your steadfast Steamboat Dispatch staff, we feel it is our duty to remind you: under no circumstances should you accept his offer of passage, no matter how much moonshine you’ve had.
A BRIEF HISTORY OF BAD DECISIONS
The first recorded encounter with the Ferryman dates back to 1847, when the well-known local eccentric fisherman Elias “Stumble-Foot” (affectionaly so-called in a few faded accounts–now faithfully transcribed via Chinese AI spybot tech in Johqu Bogart’s recent A Hermit’s History of the Shatagee Woods–on account of his intemperate social habits) Dupree drunkenly boasted he could outpaddle any old dernd ghost smack dab into the afterlife and back.
His canoe was found three days later, bobbing aimlessly near Indian Point—empty, save for a single oar gnawed clean through by something with too many teeth.
Since then, sightings have cropped up every few decades, usually in late winter, when the ice is treacherous, and the mist rolls in thick as a politician’s alibi. Witnesses describe the Ferryman as a gaunt figure wrapped in a threadbare coat, his hat pulled low over a face no one’s lived long enough to describe in full. Those foolish enough to meet his gaze report that his eyes—or rather, where his eyes ought to be—are clusters of writhing barnacles, twitching and clacking with an eerie, syncopated rhythm. The sound, faint at first, becomes impossible to ignore, like the relentless ticking of some unseen, biological clock. Once recognized as the barnacles themselves producing this grotesque chatter, the realization becomes hideous—something that gnaws at the mind, a noise that burrows into memory, never to be unheard or unseen.
THE LATEST INCIDENT
On the night of January 17th, 2025, local fishing enthusiast and alleged card cheat Lester “Lucky” Taggart stumbled into the Trailside Tavern in Owl’s Head, swearing on a stack of unpaid bar tabs that he had seen the Ferryman gliding across the frozen ice of Upper Chateaugay Lake. According to Taggart, the figure paused mid-crossing, turned toward him, and slowly raised one long, webbed hand in what was either a beckoning gesture or an attempt to adjust an existentially problematic hat brim.
Taggart, known for his lifetime of demonstrably poor judgment, decided this was as good a time as any to conduct a field study. He staggered down to the lake, stepped onto the ice, and called out, “Oi! You takin’ passengers tonight, ya barnacled bastard?”
What followed is a matter of some debate. Taggart’s own account (relayed between frantic gulps of whiskey) suggests that the Ferryman’s canoe appeared suddenly beneath his feet, as if conjured from the mist itself. Whether the ice was too thin, weakened by some unseen force, or compromised by eldritch means, the next thing he knew, he was up to his chin in frigid water, clawing his way back to shore, his boots missing, his pockets inexplicably filled with damp, ancient coins bearing no known minting date. “And my left hand smelled like low tide and disappointment for three whole days!” he added, for emphasis.
WHAT WE KNOW (AND WHAT WE WISH WE DIDN’T)
Local historian and self-appointed supernatural interweb scholar Cyrus P. Fitzwilliam III—who, it should be noted, has been excommunicated from three separate local town historical societies—has posited that the Ferryman is not a ghost, but an emissary from what he ominously refers to as “The Lake Beneath The Lake.” Fitzwilliam theorizes that Chateaugay Lake is merely a thin veneer over something much deeper and more hungry. “He is not guiding you across the lake,” Fitzwilliam warns, usually from behind a conspiratorial curtain of pipe smoke. “He is guiding you down.”
In contrast, retired game warden Earl “Blinky” Johnson offers a more pragmatic explanation: “The Ferryman ain’t nothin’ but a trick of the fog, mixed with too much of that homemade cough syrup people insist on calling brandy.” Blinky, it should be noted, once mistook a floating log for the long-lost wreck of the Adirondack and spent two hours attempting to interrogate it, so we urge readers to weigh his testimony accordingly.
A FINAL WARNING
As we enter the season of thin ice and thicker mysteries, we leave you with this parting advice: If a spectral canoe appears at your feet, if a webbed hand extends in silent invitation, and if you find yourself staring into the writhing gaze of something that should not be—turn around. Walk away. Have a stiff drink, tell no one, and under no circumstances attempt to pay the Ferryman.
He does not take cash, and the price of passage is always far too high.
—END—
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?